Repaid
by Medea Smyke
Summary: There is more to Madge Undersee than meets the eye. This is her perspective on the day Gale was whipped. Follow up to the events in "Beholden," although it can stand alone. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is a three-part exploration of the events in CF, Gale's whipping, from Madge's perspective. It is a follow-up to my one-shot "Beholden." I have my own theories about Madge and her possible role in the rebellion. She is, after all, privy to information that most district folks are not, making her someone worth recruiting.

**Repaid**

…_you go run and tell your friends I'm losing touch.  
Fill their heads with rumors of impending doom  
It must be true__…_ - The Killers

**Part One**

_Saturday, one week following the Harvest Festival_

…

I check over my shoulder again to make sure that the door to the study is closed. No sounds carry through the house. My mother is asleep and my father, Mayor Undersee, isn't home. Yet, my nerves are buzzing as I stoop on the carpet and rummage through my father's classified Capitol newspapers. They are in their usual spot, left in a tidy stack on the bottom of his bookshelf. The papers have to look perfectly arranged and in the correct order by date, so he won't know that I have replaced the one I stole last night. At best, if he suspects that I've been taking papers, then he will simply store them somewhere safer. At worst, he finds out...but so does someone else. An informer. Anyone who's fallen out of favor with the authorities and desperate to regain it. My tongue will belong to the Capitol. As well as everything else that belongs to me.

So far, my father has never noticed a paper missing. Hopefully that will save at least one of us if anything goes wrong one day.

The phone in the study rings.

I jump and barely stop myself from screaming by biting down on my fist. I do it by reflex now. The shrill ringing continues for another thirty seconds and finally triggers the answering machine, a gadget that only the mayor owns in this district. Most folks don't have consistent electricity, let alone a phone.

I stop arranging the newspapers to listen. My eyes are just level with the top of the desk and I keep a lookout on the door. A man's voice, a Capitol official whom I recognize as Nero Ashfield, leaves a clipped message in a low, barking voice. I hear that Head Peacekeeper Cray will be recalled to the Capitol and for my father to expect his replacement shortly.

That is all. No name. No date. No explanation.

I stare at the blinking red light indicating the new message. This is what the Capitol considers a courtesy call? I am disgusted, and yet, grateful for Ashfield's timing. This information may have a greater impact on District 12 than a month of combing newspapers. And I am wondering what the fallout will be? Old Cray is unpleasant in the way that a head louse is unpleasant. It doesn't feel good, but you can live with it. Many of the folks in District 12 do. Other Head Peacekeepers are a different story completely, sort of like necrotizing fasciitis.

The sound of the front door opening and closing carries up from the foyer. I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs: my father returning from business in the Justice Building.

I'm already rocking back on my heels and making a beeline for the door.

…

_Sunday_

I wake up to a quiet house. The sun makes a half-hearted attempt to pierce through the clouds. I prefer overcast mornings on days when I can linger in bed, spooning with a pillow, and allowing myself to simply be. Warm under the blankets, this is my idea of luxury. I could forgo every other comfort, eat pine like Katniss showed me, but let me have my mornings.

Eventually, though, I have to go to the bathroom and find something to quell the grumbling in my stomach. The housekeeper doesn't come on the weekends, so it's every woman for herself.

Outside my window, a layer of new snow blankets the old, blackened muck we've had for weeks. I'm more than ready for warm weather, but there are still months of cold to come. I'll need sustenance, especially if I'm going out today, so I pad down the stairs into the kitchen for some breakfast and coffee.

It's Sunday; the only day that I can meet with Darius, when he is off duty and I'm not in school. He is a Peacekeeper, but he's also one of _us_ and I needed to tell him about Ashfield's message. We use Sundays to compare notes from information we've been able to gather about the Capitol and other districts – what Darius has wheedled out of Cray. And me? From the newspapers.

Usually we have to wait until the afternoon. My parents are preoccupied upstairs until dinnertime and don't notice I'm gone. Today is easier. My father locked himself in his office first thing. I heard him pace over a loose floorboard as I passed by. My mother is on the third day of one of her debilitating headaches.

I throw together a quick feast of toast and applesauce. It isn't until after I've put a healthy spoonful into my mouth that I remember applesauce and coffee taste terrible together. Toast neutralizes the bitter flavor fairly well.

After rinsing my dishes, I set the kettle to boil again and toast more bread. Neither of my parents will eat this morning, otherwise. I steep a tincture of lavender for my mother, knowing my father will take whatever she's having. She prefers her toast with a thin layer of butter, which is all her stomach can handle when she's ill. My father prefers a little bit of bread with his jam.

Finally, everything goes on a tray and I head upstairs. I use my elbow to knock on the study door. It takes my father a while to open it for me. He looks tired.

"Good morning, Dad."

"Morning." He takes the plate and mug. "What's it today?"

"Lavender."

He nods wearily. "I have a headache, myself."

"Going to the Justice Building today?"

He looks a little startled. "No, why would you think that?"

"Oh…well…isn't that what usually causes your headaches?" I hastily supply, and then throw in a vapid laugh for good measure. "You always look kind of sour when you have to see Cray."

The corner of his lip twitches. It's a poor substitute for an actual smile, but I think I'm off the hook. "Be careful when you go up," he says.

I always am.

My room is on the second floor, along with father's office and the guest rooms. My parents sleep on the third floor. Because of my mother's migraines, my father sleeps in the room next to her. He had a connecting door installed shortly after they were married. Her room is the farthest from the sound of the doorbell and the tramping feet of visitors, as well as the sound of my piano. Although, the sound of the latter carries up easily, so I must be careful.

Gently, I turn the knob and enter. It's difficult to see because of the blackout curtains, which keep the light from causing my mother even more agony. I have the room fairly well memorized, and I know without my eyes adjusting where her bed and nightstand are. I can see the outline of her body under the covers.

She stirs. I put the tray down without a word and leave, since she is surely aware of the scent of the tea and toast.

Now that my family is taken care of, it is time to attend to business in the town.

As I put on my coat and boots, I rehash the information in my head. Factory explosions in District 8. Foul weather in District 4. That means shortages of textiles and seafood for the Capitol and their extinction in the districts. Great. We're already short on produce, which means something is up in District 11. I'm hoping Haymitch Abernathy has an explanation for me.

Of course, the papers only print the "facts." Adulterated, but still facts. The interpretation lies with me. Maybe if I didn't know about the rebel network, then none of this would sound unusual. But I know there's resistance against the Capitol…and that President Snow has his own particular flair for dealing with resistance. Foul weather, indeed. Demonstrations are more like it, I mentally rant while I yank a scarf around my neck and head out the back door. Explosions are easy enough to create and make it look like an accident when the people stop working and start fighting back. What the Capitol doesn't want anyone to know, and what I have read between the lines, is that unrest has grown beyond containment in District 4 and 8.

And perhaps elsewhere rebellion is simmering in the veins of the miserable. In fact, I know it is. The miners have never kept their political zeal a secret. I shudder and my stomach flips. Factories aren't the only places the Capitol could stage an explosion.

I find my mittens stuffed into my coat pockets. The wind is up and it bites my exposed skin. Low, grey clouds hang heavily in the sky, promising more snow later on. Not many people are out when I reach the lane heading into the market. They're probably trying to stay warm at home, which works in my favor. It's difficult to keep a low profile when one has to operate in daylight. I take a backstreet circling the square when I see that Darius has not yet arrived. He goes to the Hob on his free time, I know. But I'm not brave enough to look for him there, so I wait on the edge of the square.

I don't wait long.

Footsteps announce a person's presence on the cobbles behind me and turn quickly. We almost smash into each other and Darius's arms reach out to buffer the impact.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"Probably should have warned you." He steps back and I get a good look at him.

Darius has replaced his white Peacekeeper uniform for plain corduroy trousers and a wool coat that matches a black winter hat. Only a few strands of ginger hair show where it's been pushed back on his forehead. He would stand out like a flare at midnight otherwise, especially in District 12 where everyone's hair is either black or gold like mine.

"Hello, princess," he quips.

I frown. Not all Peacekeepers are as tolerable as Darius, but even he's a stretch at times. The nickname reminds me of my less-than-pleasant encounter with his fellow officers only a few days ago and he is making light of it. Princess is the nickname Peacekeeper Niels, or Piggy, gave me and I resent that Darius has decided to adopt it.

The frown registers and he gives me an apologetic half-grin. "Sorry. Still a sore subject, huh?"

Still? I was assaulted less than a week ago and I still feel the need to look over my shoulder when I walk by myself.

But I shrug because I'm feeling uncomfortable and don't want to show it. "A bit, yeah."

Darius looks around. "Come on, we'll talk somewhere else."

I follow him and we maintain small talk as a family passes by. Nobody seems to pay any attention to us, which is good. I'm not sure if anyone even recognizes Darius without his uniform on, but I know they would recognize me, and the last thing we need is for people to start scrutinizing my extracurricular activities.

When we're alone on a side street he resumes his earlier thought. "You'll be pleased to hear that your friends were too hungover to return to duty on time, which seriously pissed off Cray." He stops walking and looks me over, judging my reaction. "He's got them on a tight leash, so they won't be bothering your boyfriend." He winks at me. "As long as he keeps a low profile, that is."

Darius starts walking again and I follow a few paces behind.

"Gale isn't my boyfriend," I reply, blushing. "We're not even friends."

Darius gives me a long, knowing glance over his shoulder. "Yes, that's what confuses me about you."

I almost ask him what he means when we reach an empty shop a few blocks away from the square. Whoever owned it went out of business a long time ago. We circle around to the back of the building and Darius ducks through the shattered remains of the delivery door. I follow him into the dank, dirty room. It smells like moldy insulation and wet concrete. The windows that still have glass are coated over in coal dust and grime. There's nothing in the room but splintered wood, a few rocks, and rotting leaves. Vandals have already picked through anything worth taking years ago, so we're in no danger of being interrupted or overheard.

Not wanting to waste time, I turn to him. "I needed to tell you that there's a new…"

"Head?" Darius finishes for me. "Yeah. He's already set up shop. In fact, I have to cut our meeting short. I'm on duty tonight. New security procedure."

"Oh," I gape.

Darius hunkers down on the floor, taking out a little bottle of white liquor from his coat pocket. He cracks the seal and takes a quick sip before offering it to me. I refuse. I know he's just keeping warm, and I don't mind, but the stuff burns my throat and tastes like paint stripper.

I sit down next to him. For a second I'm afraid I sat in something wet, but it's only the cold concrete against my warm skin. Darius takes another swig from the bottle and I'm not sure if he's going to elaborate on the new Head. "Well…what's he like?" I finally ask. "Besides abrupt. Nero Ashfield informed my father about him only yesterday."

Darius shrugs. "Nothing like Cray. Romulus Thread's his name. I can already see that he's a Capitol man through and through."

It's a little odd, I think, the distinction that Darius makes between Capitol people. I mean, he was born in the Capitol, too, but I guess he doesn't see himself as a product of it.

"That's going to make your job harder," I reply with a cringe. Darius is more than admirable, considering the risk he takes to find information for Haymitch. While I'm reading newspapers in the safety of my own home, he's conning Capitol folk who can make things very bad for him.

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe not. Cray was sloppy, left documents lying around, talked to the higher-ups on the phone with the door open. Dumb stuff. But I don't think they trusted him with half of what they'll trust with Thread. I won't be able to squeeze him like I did Cray, but I bet everything we learn will be worth far more to our friends."

We are both hugging our knees to our chests as the chill in the room soaks in. The conversation lapses as I take in this new information. Romulus Thread is an unknown quantity, and it makes me nervous. Life in this district is not pleasant, but the Peacekeepers have been lax. Not like it is in other districts. Not like District 8 where otherwise efficient factories mysteriously explode.

Speaking of which…

"Darius, there have been more uprisings."

His eyes light up. "Where?"

"Four and eight"

"Did Haymitch tell you that?" he asks.

I chew my bottom lip for a moment.

"No…it's more of a theory…I haven't spoken to Mr. Abernathy, yet," I tell him. "I don't think he's been sober since the Victory Tour." It's an unspoken rule. If he wants information, he sobers up long enough to talk. I'm fairly certain I'm the only one who receives this consideration. I'm not sure why, but I've got a theory about that, too.

Darius nods. We've come to trust each other's hunches in the last year. "How did you find out?"

"The usual," I say. "My dad's Capitol papers. I read articles last night about fabric shortages caused by the factory explosion."

Darius guffaws and I'm startled by it.

"I guess naked is making a comeback this season," he jokes. "I almost wish I was back in the Capitol."

My eyes pop and I feel a blush coming on. Darius winks at me. He thinks it's funny that I embarrass so easily.

"Sorry, should I have said 'fashionably bare' instead?"

I ignore him and try to find a new, comfortable sitting position. The feeling in my bottom went away around the time Romulus Thread's name was first mentioned. "A weather report predicted more foul weather in District Four and to expect disruptions in the shipment of seafood."

"Hence, your hunch about a revolt in District 4."

"Yes," I say. "These are the sort of things Haymitch told us to look for. Unusual disruptions in the districts, especially the ones where we have contacts. Like District 4."

"Well, you're probably right. And that would help explain the sudden change in command in our district. If the Capitol is feeling nervous about uprising in one or two districts, then President Snow isn't going to wait for the others to start causing trouble before he step in."

"What do you think Mr. Abernathy will want us to do?" I ask.

"My guess?" Darius shrugs. "Bide our time."

What? But what if we miss our chance? "Even if the other districts are revolting now?" I ask, a note of desperation making it sound like a squeak.

He cocks an eyebrow. "Do we look like we're ready for a revolt?"

"Maybe if we were able to get more people involved – you know there are dozens of miners who are already talking about overthrowing the Capitol –"

Darius takes off his beanie and runs his fingers through the ginger mop of hair. "And what then? Say a dozen join us. One of them isn't discrete. Tomorrow every one of us gets marked." He puts his hat back on. "We have to be smart about this, even if we are willing to risk our lives. If we're discovered then who can we help?"

Reluctantly I agree, but the feeling of desperation doesn't go away. What if we miss our chance? What if we're discovered before we can act against President Snow and his Capitol?

"So, in the meantime, you get to play a woman of privilege, spurned by a peasant who thinks you've got it easy. Little does he know that you're a spy…" My mouth drops open, because I have never told Darius any of my personal feelings about this so-called peasant. Not even when I explained the assault. "…and I'm just a hero in the disguise of nasty old Peacekeeper, who will probably never receive proper recognition." He laughs. I am not amused. "Come on, Madge, relax. Haymitch is a smart man. He survived this long and he's not about to lose the game," Darius says. "I trust him."

I do, too. Sort of. He's tough, that's for sure, and very cautious with the information that I pass on to him. But I have no idea how he can drink himself into oblivion and still run an underground rebel network at the same time. Sometimes I feel like this rebellion is on the brink of spiraling out of control and it frightens me that the only lifeline I have is a drunk.

"All right there, Madge?" Darius's lips are puckered in thought as he observes me.

I nod slowly. "I'm fine. You should probably go, though." I try smiling and reach for his hand. "Make a good impression on Thread."

"Will do."

Darius stands and helps me to my feet.

"Don't worry about it, princess." He reached out to squeeze my hand. "For all we know, we could be seeing better days."

"Sure," I reply. That's optimistic. Or delusional.

Darius pulls his hat back on and ducks outside. I wait for a few minutes before leaving the shop so that no one will see us together again. It occurs to me while I'm pacing to get my blood moving again that Darius didn't say what happened to old Cray.

Maybe he doesn't know.

…

TBC.

AN: I am a little confused by Collins's timeline, which is very vague. If the Hunger Games take place in the summer and the Victory Tour takes place halfway between the Games, then how is it that the Harvest Festival takes place at the end of it? Wouldn't the season be more into winter than into harvest? I don't know. Anyway, it's a minor point, I guess, but it bothers me not to be able to nail it down.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the copyright to The Hunger Games series. Obviously that honor falls to Suzanne Collins. Portions of the text for this fanfiction have been lifted directly from chapter one of _The Hunger Games _and chapters seven and eight of _Catching Fire_ and do not belong to me.

**Repaid**

_All the nightmares came today,  
And it looks as though they're here to stay… – David Bowie_

**Part Two**

I leave the abandoned store feeling disgruntled. I'm not used to being observed and Darius is too good at reading people. Add the possibility of stronger Capitol imposition in the district and I feel like I'm on the way to a stomach ache.

It's a little after lunchtime, but I'm not in any hurry to return home where it's too quiet. I would visit Katniss, but it's a Sunday afternoon. She'll be in the woods beyond the fence with Gale. I wonder what they'll talk about? What her engagement to Peeta means to Gale? Katniss and I are friends, but we keep our own secrets. The truth is that I'm not sure how much stock to put into the engagement, myself. Katniss doesn't confide in me, and I don't ask, but I have eyes. She has spent whatever time she can with Gale since she came home from the Games…while Peeta she's avoided like the plague.

I don't know. Maybe she really does love Peeta and they've kept it under wraps. There were moments during the Games when it seemed like, for a moment, things would click into place and they would just look at each other like they were the only humans left in Panem. I guess I wish they still acted that way, because, maybe…I shut that thought down. What I want is for Katniss to be happy. She's my friend and that's what's important.

My eyes are burning when I reach the market and I enter the first door I come to. The sweetshop.

I haven't been in here for a while. It makes me uncomfortable. A new family owns the business since my grandparents didn't have any other surviving children to pass it on to when my mother married my father. My mother spent a little less than half of her life above this shop, but she won't visit her old home. Ever.

The shop hasn't changed at all, my father says. The brightly colored candy is stored in the same clear dispensers and bins, which are still arranged the way my grandmother set them up years ago when they took over the business from another family. The right-hand side of the shop is covered in shelves filled with all manner of treats from toffee to rock candy that does something chemically unhealthy on your tongue. A Capitol specialty, I'm sure. In fact, everything about this shop reeks of the Capitol's superiority because nobody but a handful of our citizens can afford to purchase anything from here. And if a family from the Seam comes by a few extra coins, are they going to waste it on jelly beans when they're children need milk? So, not a lot of traffic comes through this store. In fact, I learned to check for expiration dates a long time ago (one of the better things to come out of the Capitol), because once, as a little girl, I brought home a bag of licorice that was older than me. It was a gift for my mother, but the pieces were hard enough to break your teeth on.

On the left-hand side of the shop, behind a glass display counter, stands a copper cauldron and a marble-topped table. A middle-aged woman named Mrs. Stukley, the shopkeeper, is bending over it with a large metal spatula spreading out a new batch of fudge to set. She's a thin, crane-like woman with ash blonde hair pulled tight over her skull. She looks up with a frown. But when she sees that I look like someone who can afford her merchandise, it turns into a smile.

When she recognizes _me_, she even says hello.

"Margaret, I haven't seen you for some time."

Margaret is my grandmother's name, which I inherited. It means pearl. Mrs. Stukley is the only person who insists on using my full name. It goes along with her obsession. Owning the shop that once belonged to a tribute's family has given the woman a false sense of celebrity. Especially since my aunt didn't actually make it back home. Haymitch Abernathy did. Of course, that was a famous year for District 12, winning the second Quarter Quell against twice as many tributes, and I guess a certain type of person might want to bask in it. But I doubt anyone else even looks at the faded photo of Maysilee Donner that she insists on hanging over the antique cash register.

Of course, I do glance at the photo now that I'm thinking about it. I look a lot like my mother and Aunt Maysilee did, with characteristic blue eyes and gold hair. Our faces are all slightly round, but I inherited my father's straight nose. Maysilee is smiling in the photo and I don't know why, other than it can't possibly be from her days as a tribute. In another month I'll be a year older than she was when she died. It's an uncomfortable thought. And I'll have one more slip of paper in the reaping ball for the Third Quarter Quell. I swallow. Maybe I don't have as many slips as _some_ people, but my aunt only had a few…and she still went.

"_You won't be going to the Capitol…what can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."_

As the words shoot through my mind for the thousandth time, I'm feeling ashamed. But it quickly gives way to anger. Gale Hawthorne had forty-two slips, yet his name was never once called.

My aunt had five. Prim Everdeen had _one_. They were both picked. Who is he to behave so self-righteously? As far as I know, not one member of the Hawthorne family has ever been chosen as a tribute for the Hunger Games. Clearly the odds _have_ been in his favor.

I realized that Mrs. Stukley has been waiting for my reply, so I mumble something about being busy with school, which she accepts without hesitation. Still not wanting to go home, but unable to leave without a reason for coming in, I awkwardly ask her to wrap up a pound of fudge for me. I'll send it home with our housekeeper, Hanna, tomorrow night. She has two little grandchildren that live in the Seam.

Mrs. Stukley ambles over to one of the display cases and measures out a brick of fudge on the scale. She asks about my mother while she wraps it in crisp, white wax paper. She adds a red ribbon in a fit of sentimentality. Hanna's granddaughter will love it. After I pay her with a few coins I hasten outside. Thinking about the Reaping has me feeling worked up and frustrated. All I want is to walk it off at a brisk pace.

Instead of heading home I turn back the way I came, toward the shop where Darius and I hid. I don't think I can walk into another store. There are never enough customers to keep the shopkeepers preoccupied and I'm in no mood for people right now. However, I'm passing by a steady stream of them heading for the square. I've worked myself into such a heated fervor that I don't notice the mood of the passers-by or wonder why suddenly everyone is out when the market has been deserted most of the day. I'm lost in my own thoughts.

Sure, maybe more Seam kids are chosen than kids from town, but it's not just the tesserae to blame. The fact is that there simply are _more_ kids in the Seam. Most merchant families only have one or two children. Sometimes, if they're extravagant, like the Mellarks, they have three. Whereas the Hawthorne's have what would be considered a small family since the average number of children per Seam household is six. When your father is the mayor, numbers like these come up around the dinner table.

Finally, I'm about to walk right out of town when I stop and take a breath. My jaw hurts and I realized that I've been grinding my teeth. My shoulder slump as I gaze down the street, realizing that my feet have nearly carried me into the Seam. I let out a huff and the vapor from my breath swirls around in the cold air. Why am I so upset about words of censure spoken half a year ago?

Sure, it wasn't fair for Gale to snap at me, but I should have known better than to make the comment about looking nice for the Capitol. On a normal day it isn't very funny. On Reaping Day it's so disgusting that I'm cringing at the memory. And why did I even say it? Because I felt awkward, and didn't know how to respond to his compliment…if it even was a compliment, at all. I'm still not sure about that. Asking Katniss doesn't strike me as a good idea.

No, what I'm upset about is the rejection. I know better than to expect him to forget his feelings for Katniss…but can't we be friends? And I feel the hatred for the Capitol officials well up again – because it's their machinations that keep good people separated for no reason, blaming each other for injustices that we would never have chosen to impose on one another.

And I remember that this is why I'm sneaking behind my father's back to read newspapers that every Panem civilian is banned from touching. This is why Darius, and a small handful of other folks in District 12, stick their necks out to gather news. And even though I'm afraid and feel like I've thrown myself into something too big to handle, I won't back out. So, in its own twisted way, Gale's prejudice against me is a good thing, because, unfortunately, having close associations with individuals who _blatantly_ flout Capitol justice is not good for my already precarious position.

A few preliminary snowflakes begin to fall and I turn around. My stomach is starting to feel hollow since breakfast and it's getting on in the afternoon. The cold is working its way into my clothes and skin and I walk faster, hoping to get home before it starts to grow dark, which is happening earlier and earlier with the winter. The few trees along the road thin out and rows of townhouses begin. Eventually I pass through the first lane of shops and I'm about to pass through the square.

Only there's a crowd of people in my way.

The unease that emanates from them is palpable, like a snake uncoiling in the grass.

I try squeezing through, but nobody notices me or moves. Men and women from both the Seam and the town fill up the sidewalks. Some are standing on top of benches and old mounting blocks. I have no idea how word traveled so fast and I have a hard time figuring out what it is that has attracted all of them. I look around and see that all the windows in the run-down storefronts are dark. I can barely make out a few faces of the shopkeepers' families pressed up against the panes, watching from behind the safety of their own glass.

Everyone else in the square is shuffling uncomfortably. A few of the braver folk murmur to each other, sounding more ominous the longer I listen.

"Not again."

"I wonder if Cray's come to a bad end?"

"It'll be worse for us."

"Just like the old days."

"Poor lad, he never saw it coming. Walked right into, I heard."

"Who?" I finally ask anyone willing to answer. Are they talking about Cray?

An old man looks at me with hard eyes. "See for yourself." He steps out of my way and I peer through a line of shoulders.

At first all I can see is a tall, wooden post in the middle of the square. It's a strange sight and I wonder what it means. The silver top of a close-shaved head appears over the crowd. Then I hear a deep voice bark through the square, ordering the crowd to silence. There's no mistaking the Capitol accent and belligerent undertone. Only a distinct breed of person speaks this way and I know exactly who the man behind the voice is.

Romulus Thread.

Someone in the front of the crowd must have decided that he's too close for comfort and moves back, giving me a better view of Thread as he paces around the space people have left him in the square center. He looks like he was born to wear the Head Peacekeeper uniform. It molds to the contours of his well-defined body, not one stitch or wrinkle out of place. Old Cray looks like a sack of potatoes compared to this man. My throat constricts. _Not good._

I elbow my way further into the crowd. I can see by the haphazard line of Peacekeepers that Thread likes to present a show of force, but that his enforcement officers aren't very keen on what's going on. Whatever that is. Some of the Peacekeepers are recognizable, like Darius who is now wearing his white uniform. There are also a few I've never seen, perhaps members of Thread's personal retinue, and they have the Capitol stamped all over them.

Thread steps a little more into my view and I see him gesture toward the post. Two Peacekeepers approach it and the hard bark of a hammer driving a nail reverberates through the cold air. When they step away my stomach turns. What in the world?

A dead turkey dangles from the post by a nail through its neck.

A wave of disgust washes over me. What is Thread trying to pull? Taunt starving people with food they can't have? Use the most morbid means possible to demonstrate his power? I have no idea.

"Bring the offender forward."

Peacekeeper Gauis shuffles into the center leading Gale Hawthorne by the arm.

Understanding shatters over me…Sundays in the woods, the turkey, the Peacekeepers. Gale must have made his rounds early today…but he didn't know Cray was gone. Nobody did.

And Romulus Thread does not have an appetite for wild turkey.

I feel myself take a step or two forward as Gale is forced to kneel before Thread. There's something in the man's hand and I want to see what it is.

Someone, a woman from the Hob, holds me back by the arm. "Don't be a fool," she hisses in my ear.

"You are Gale Hawthorne, a miner from the Seam?"

She doesn't let go, so all I can do is watch as Thread forces a confession out of Gale. His voice is low and steady – I don't know how – as he says the words that will convict him. "Yes, sir." Gale's face is like stone, revealing neither fear nor defiance. But he can't quite keep the latter out of his voice.

Thread has his arms folded over his chest and his coal-black eyes are cold. "You killed this turkey." It isn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

Thread's lips curl into a sneer and I realize with a shiver that the man is enjoying himself! "And where did you come by it?"

"I was walking in the Seam, heading to the market, when I saw the bird," Gale tells him, the lie slipping easily from his lips. "It must have gotten over the fence somehow."

"Surely you must know that this is still considered poaching." Thread has the look of a cat who has cornered his prey and is taking the time to gloat over it before delivering the death blow. "Also, the possession of arms is illegal. What did you use to kill this turkey?"

I feel a flash of pride as Gale refuses to cower before his accuser. "I stabbed it with a stick that happened to be lying by, sir."

"Indeed, Mr. Hawthorne?" Thread nearly purrs. "That seems highly unlikely to me. However, seeing as there were no weapons on your person when you were apprehended on my doorstep, I will be merciful and not include that in your conviction."

He gestures toward Gale and two Peacekeepers step forward. Felix and Niels. To my astonishment, they both look like they're going to be sick. And I realize that while they may be pigs, they aren't monsters, like Thread.

"Gale Hawthorne, based on your confession and the testimony of these witnesses," he waves his hand vaguely toward Gaius, Niels, and Felix and I wonder how they had the gall to bear witness against him. Then I wonder if they had a choice. Around me, the faces of men and women are black with righteous anger directed at these young Peacekeepers. But no one will raise his or her voice to oppose the Head Peacekeeper and his crew. "I hereby declare you guilty of poaching on Capitol lands and sentence you to be publicly whipped." He paused to let this sink in. "Which will be carried out immediately."

Gale barely has time to blink before Thread nods toward Felix and Niels. They grab him under the arms and haul him to the post. Gale's coat is stripped from his back and thrown aside by Felix as Niels steps up to bind his wrists. Thread takes the honor of ripping open the back of Gale's shirt for himself.

The first stroke falls with a crack that echoes painfully through the silent square. My body jumps in response to the sound. Gale's nostrils flare, but his jaw is locked tight. He won't cry out if he can help it. Another stroke falls and another. A muffled groan travels around the crowd and a hiss of pain escapes Gale's lips. First blood.

I lose count after ten lashes and the blood begins to flow freely. It stains Gale's trousers bright red and pools around his knees, mixing with dirty snow. Blood spatters on Thread's white uniform now. The thick smell of it permeates the air, making me feel dizzy. One would think that after years of watching Hunger Games that somehow this wouldn't feel so awful, that somehow I would be desensitized. But it hasn't. I'm so horrified I can't think straight.

I catch Darius's eyes across the square and what he sees on my face causes him to frown and subtly shake his head. _We have to stop Thread_, I want to scream. But his expression is telling me not to blow my cover, not to put myself under the Capitol's radar by publicly aiding a confessed criminal. However, I can also see in his eyes that he feels exactly as I do. A curse escapes my lips through a half-strangled sob, which I muffle with my glove.

I break eye contact with Darius. Gale no longer holds his back straight and his body sways with each additional blow from Thread's whip. His gasps of pain tear at my heart. For someone who had to grow up so fast and be so strong for his family, he sounds terribly young and vulnerable.

The Capitol be damned. Let Haymitch get his information elsewhere. I don't care if I blow my cover, the whipping has got to stop; and I am even prepared to go back on my principles by using my father's position as mayor to save Gale. The life comes back to my limbs and the woman loses her hold on my arm. I am almost to the front of the crowd when I see Darius lurch forward. He shoots me a look of consternation just as his hand grabs Thread's wrist.

"That's enough," is what he tries to say, but Thread is swift. The butt of the whip crashes down on Darius' forehead, taking the hit I would have received, and I inhale a scream as he slumps to the ground at Thread's feet. His face falls only a few inches away from the pool of Gale's blood.

A look of confusion clouds Gale's face, which is tight with pain and glistening with sweat. His damp, black hair hangs down over his face, and I feel compelled to brush it out of his eyes. He doesn't even have the strength to turn his head to see what is going on behind him. But I cannot move, paralyzed by what has happened to Darius.

The crack of the whip continues again with fresh vigor, as though Darius's intervention has given the man an extra measure of conviction. Each stroke rips further into Gale's skin until it begins to flay away into a pulpy mixture of flesh and muscle. A sliver of something white is exposed on his back, bone I realize, and then I have to turn away or I will vomit.

Thread's arm never falters, which I can hear, even as the crowd collectively gasps. I force myself to face the horrible tableau. Gale has slumped forward on his knees. My heart shudders, then stops.

No, no, nonono. He's not dead. He can't…

Gale's chest expands and contracts, just barely, and my heart sputters back to life. He is alive and blessedly unconscious. His pale face, which is spattered in gore, presses up against the post as though he were asleep. Only the bonds around his wrists keep him from lying on the bloody cobblestones.

This, I think, is surely when Thead will realize that Gale has endured enough for his crime; that an unconscious man has nothing more to learn from the lash of his whip. And when I think that I have reached the fullest measure of horror, I see the man raise his arm over his head and bring it whistling downward.

And again, and again, and again.

Romulus Thread is not a man. He's a beast – a wild, sadistic animal whose bloodlust will not be satiated until he has torn ever inch of flesh off of Gale's body and drained every last drop of his lifeblood. This is the thought that spirals through my mind when a voice shrieks through the square.

"Stop! You'll kill him!"

Katniss.

…

TBC.

AN: Thank you for reading! And I couldn't help the epigraph. I love *coughJarethcough* David Bowie. ;D

AN2: In this story I mention that Madge's name, a diminutive of Margaret, means pearl. I think it's interesting to note, since the pearl itself seems to be an emerging (between Effie's ignorant comments and the real pearl in the arena), if a little enigmatic, symbol in the books. So, yeah, "Pearl" Under_see_…I'm sensing a theme…possibly her connection to the broader events of the trilogy. It doesn't hurt that I'm already biased in her favor. :P


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Again, portions of this fic have been lifted directly from _Catching Fire_. It all belongs to Suzanne Collins.

AN: I don't really have a good sense for how SC designed the town, market, Victor's Village and Seam…so if it appears that Madge is running in odd directions to get places…well…she is. I kind of see it as the market square is the center of a wheel surrounded by the town, and that the VV and Seam have roads leading off like spokes in a wheel.

**Repaid**

_I saw the devil wrapping up his hands; he's getting ready for the showdown.  
I saw the ending when they turned the page, I threw my money and I ran away.  
Straight to the valley of the great divide  
Out where the dreams all hide. – The Killers_

**Part Three**

_Sunday evening_

Katniss received a lash on the face for her trouble. When Peeta and Haymitch step in, most of the steam blows out of Thread's vigilance.

When it becomes clear that the whip won't leave Thread's side again I run for it. People step out of my way now without me having to struggle, which is good.

I can feel that my shirt is damp from the cold sweat that broke out over my skin just before the retching begins. I manage to throw up in the bushes behind my house and not in the square all over people's feet. It's mostly bile that comes up, and whatever remained from my breakfast hours ago. Snow soaks through my mittens and pant legs as I kneel on the ground. Tears stream from a bout of dry heaving which peters out into shivering. My sides ache.

I feel like hiding a bit longer in the darkness. I don't know how long I've been in the backyard, but the snow is falling thick around me. I watch it drifting steadily downward, each snowflake like pure, white goose down. There is a beauty in them that helps distract me from the horror in the town. It's a comfort, in a way, how the flakes can fall and fall, blown about by the wind, landing in drifts. Untouchable and so indifferent to the plight of human beings.

The back door opens and a yellow sliver of light falls on the snowy flagstone path.

"Madge?"

My father's voice breaks the spell I am under. He steps outside and I straighten up, wiping my mouth with the back of my mitten.

He closes the distance between us and kneels next to me. Even then he towers over my head, tall as he is. "Madge, where have you been? We were worried about you," he says in an even voice. A voice used to masking his true feelings while maintaining outward composure.

His hand slips beneath my chin, tilting it upward as he scrutinizes my face. "You look ill."

I nod.

"Where have you been?" he asks again, allowing a small thread of worry to color his voice.

My gorge rises instantly. I don't want to think about where I have been. Telltale saliva floods my mouth – I try to swallow, but it gets stuck in my throat. I thought I was done being sick.

"Dad…" I manage to whisper.

And then I cry right here in the snow, not even attempting to go inside, despite the cold. Despite the sour reek in the bushes. Despite my father whose arms instantly lift me up and encircle me. Tears that started out warm against my cheek drip from my chin, trickling cold down my neck. I shiver despite my father's warmth.

Father's lips brush over the hair by my ear. "Madge, were you in the square?" He knows. He says it like he already knows what lies in the square. The whipping post – what I have witnessed.

A sob escaped my lips, and I sound uncertain. "Yes?"

That is all I can say. The sobs come harder, like painful coughing. My stomach heaves. I don't like being this emotional in front of anyone, but I can't help it. And a part of me wants to be held and told that everything will be all right. All the fear I'm experiencing makes me feel like a small child again.

"Come on, Madge. Up you get," he says when it becomes apparent that I won't budge on my own. "It's too cold for this."

Father half-carries me back up the path, up the steps and into the kitchen. Heat envelopes me and I realize it's been a long time since I've felt warm. My mother is sitting in a chair by the stove with a mug of tea. The potent scent of steeping ginger wafts through the kitchen. Normally I like the scent of ginger, but my stomach is sensitive because of the nausea. The cloying tang makes my head feel like it's spinning. I lean on my father's arm.

Mother looks somewhat improved from the morning, but still fatigued. Her pale yellow hair is tied back in a braid, spilling down the back of her nightgown. Her tired eyes meet mine and I knew that she notices every detail from my tear-stained face to the wet, rumpled clothing. Then she looked a question at my father.

He helps me take off my coat and wrappings. The mittens need to be washed immediately.

Once the boots are off I'm ready to collapse.

"What happened, honey?" Mother gestures for me to come and my father pulls up a chair next to her. He brings a blanket in from the laundry room and eases it around me. I sit and one of her arms encircles my damp shoulders, pulling me close.

A few silent moments slip by and they look at me expectantly. But I can't bring myself to talk about what I've seen. Voicing it would force me to relive Gale's torture and accept it as true. Already it is starting to feel like a story, an event that happened elsewhere and to other people. I try to remember the way I felt in the snow, but that moment has passed.

"Henry?" my mother finally says.

"Well…" My father scratches his head, and I can tell that he is slowly thinking of what exactly to tell my fragile mother. "The Capitol assigned a new Head Peacekeeper to the district," he says to her. "Romulus Thread. He started this morning."

Mother looks distressed. "Oh no," she breathes. "What is he like?"

Something passes between them, a shared memory, perhaps. "Thorough," Father replies. "I received a call about twenty minutes ago from Peacekeeper Purnia. He's already held his first public punishment in the square."

"Who?" she reluctantly asks.

My father turns to me for the answer.

"Gale H-hawthorne," I stammer as tears threatened to fall again. I wipe my nose on the blanket. "The boy with the strawberries that always came with Katniss. Thread whipped him for poaching."

My parents exchange a look. I have no idea what it means, but when they look at me again it makes my cheeks turn red.

"Oh, Madge." Mother put her mug down and hugs me close. "Did you see it happen?"

I nod. "I tried to come home through the square, but Thread had already started to make him confess. The crowd overflowed the square and I couldn't leave."

And I didn't leave until I knew that he would be taken care of. Who better than Katniss?

This thought stings. Severely. So, I put it away.

My mother gently runs her hand over my hair, the way she did when I was a little girl. It's easy to get lost in the comforting repetition. Her fingers catch on the wet, tangled strands, but she works the knots out without it hurting at all. She sighs. Weariness hangs about her like a shroud. In the midst of all the fear and sickness I feel for Gale, guilt adds itself to the heap of emotions. Guilt for burdening myself onto her when she is barely able to handle her own reality.

"Madge," my father asks hesitantly, "what happened to Gale?"

I fight the urge to bury my face in mother's shoulder instead of answering his question. "Katniss came, and Peeta, and Mr. Abernathy. They got in the way and then Purnia stopped Thread before he reached forty strokes. Gale passed out before that – Oh, Darius!" I cried, suddenly pushing away from my mother. I left when I knew for a fact that Thread had finished, knew that Katniss would make sure Gale would be cared for, but Darius – what has happened to him?

"Darius…the Peacekeeper?" Father asks. Of course, he does not know that we are acquainted. "What about him?"

I try to calm down enough to speak coherently. "He tried to force Thread to stop, but…Thread hit him hard. Knocked him unconscious." I suck in a breath. "I don't know what's going to happen to him now."

Father sits down at the table, looking as tired as my mother. "I have no idea. Hopefully the young man hasn't gotten himself into too much trouble." Dad rubs his eyes wearily and that's all I need to know that Darius is deeply in trouble. "I'm sorry, Madge," he murmurs. "I wish you hadn't seen that."

"Me, too," I mumble without conviction.

It's worse than that, I know.

I wish I hadn't seen the whipping, but more than that, I wish it had not happened at all, least of all to Gale…because his family depends on him so much. My worry stems from how this beating will affect them, I tell myself. They are practically strangers and I have no ties to them, but I feel the sort of concern anyone would have for their neighbors.

I can practically taste the lie on my tongue. Gale is in pain. Maybe bleeding to death. If there was a way that I could reach out and take all of his suffering into my hands and keep it, then I would. And why not? I'm not of much use or importance. Even Mr. Abernathy can get his Capitol gossip elsewhere. Maybe he already does? But Gale is needed and taking his pain would be worth it.

It's too late to deny the fact that I admire Gale and that I have for a long time. Any pretense I might have had about casual, friendly interest melted away when Thread forced him to his knees.

Why? I rub my eyes, hoping for some clarity. Why do I invest more in him than he will ever invest in me?

As long as I can remember, he's the only boy I've noticed with a spark of gumption; who thinks beyond the borders of District 12 and sees an opportunity. Like I do (even if I don't have the means to get out there, myself). Not just wilderness or empty, forbidden space.

Gale's a survivor in a cutthroat country and I can't help it if I admire him for defying the Capitol one squirrel at a time. He is the reticent boy who accepted the possibility of taking a bullet in the head for risking the woods in order to care for his family; the boy who goes to the mines for twelve hours a day, despite the fact that he only feels alive in the woods. The boy who could have any girl he wanted, but sticks loyally to his best friend Katniss. No matter who she is at home, or who she became in the Games. Or who she decides to get engaged to. And maybe it's foolish to admire that kind of tenacity, but I do. Or, at least, I understand it.

Gale. Admirable even when he's stubborn and surly, walking around school hallways with that stony scowl and his black hair hanging in his gray eyes. Even when he ran away before I could thank him for rescuing me from drunk Peacekeepers.

I gasp and my hand flies to my mouth. _I know how to thank him._

The chair slides back as I jump up, arms extended in exaltation. "Mom!"

I've been quiet and still for so long that she looks startled by my outburst. "What?"

"I –"

I deflate. I cannot ask my mother for this favor. No way. I slump back into the chair feeling worse after the nanosecond of elation, now guilty _and_ useless. "Never mind."

She strokes my arm. "Maybe you should go upstairs and rest. It's been an awful day for you."

An awful day for me. Worse for others.

Mother rises from her seat. "I'm going back to bed now, anyway."

My father helps her up the stairs and I follow behind. The floorboards squeak occasionally – loudly – it seems in the hush. As I start down the second floor hallway, my mother stops on the stairs. "Henry, I forgot my tea. Will you please get it for me? Madge will help me up."

"Of course." He nods and starts back down the steps. More squeaking.

She takes my arm. "Madge, I want you to do something for me," she whispers as we climb the last flight of steps.

"What is it?"

We reach the landing, but she does not say anything more until we are in her bedroom. She goes into her spacious, walk-in closet instead of allowing me to help her into bed. I can hear the soft shhhh of fabric as she shuffles through a row of party dresses that she never wears. Half a minute later she reappears with a wool throw and a small cardboard box, which I immediately recognize. This is the box that appeared in my mind in the kitchen, the one that gave me such elation.

I stare at it dumbly. Could she possibly mean for me to…did she read my thoughts so clearly?

"Take this for the Hawthorne boy," she tells me.

I shake my head. "I can't take your painkillers, Mama," I say, slipping in the name I used to call her by as a child.

But Mother ignores me and starts wrapping it up in the throw. "I don't want your father to know. He has enough things to worry about besides my medication."

"But-"

My mother sighs and I wonder if her headache is returning. I know that talking hurts her head, makes it feel like every cell in her brain is exploding. How can I take her medicine?

Yet, how can I let Gale suffer when I owe him? And we can afford more.

"Madge," Mother whispers. "Take it for your friend." She holds it out and I take it.

Then I pause, standing there stupidly with the box. "Where do you think they took him? Back to his home?" I ask.

Mother doesn't hesitate, and there's a look in her blue eyes, something fierce and young. "They took him to Mrs. Everdeen. I'm sure of it. That is what we did years ago."

Years ago?

"Mama, you're sure this is all right? You'll be all right?" I have to ask again even though I'm itching to run out the door.

She nods and I don't have to be told again. The bundled up throw is tucked safely under my arm just as my father comes up the stairs with the tea. He asks if I want supper and I shake my head as my stomach rebels against the thought of food. All I want is to get the morphling to the Everdeens' as soon as possible. Father hugs me goodnight and I slip down the stairs to my room.

The door snicks shut behind me and I lean against the solid wood for a minute or two, and just breathe.

All the nightmares came today. Maybe even the devil. If I can't handle _this_ from the Capitol, then what the _hell_ am I doing signing up with the likes of Haymitch Abernathy?

With that pleasant thought steeping in the back of my mind, I unwrap the box, placing it on the bed, and fold up the throw. I'll need to wait for my parents, my father specifically, to go to sleep. With unsteady legs I cross my room to my closet and pull out fresh clothes and change out of my wet ones.

After I've brushed my teeth in the bathroom and rinsed the awful taste of sickness out of my mouth, I turn off my bedroom lamp and sit at the vanity, where I can see the backyard. Out of my window the rectangular patch of light from my father's room is visible as it reflects on the ground. Snow is still falling, fast and heavy. Time creeps along at its leisure and eventually I get up to bring the box of morphling over to the table. I open it and count the vials. There are more than enough, I hope, to help Gale get through the next few weeks.

When the light finally goes out I sneak down the stairs, carefully avoiding the boards most prone to squeaking. I reach the floor with a sigh of relief and then nearly forget my coat in my haste to get out the door. The hat is negligible.

The snow flies around my head, thick and wet, sticking in my hair. The cold stings my eyes and I have a difficult time seeing. I try to protect the box from the snow, but the cardboard grows moist and flimsy, anyway. I should have brought the blanket.

I have to cut through the square to get to the road that leads to the Victor's Village. In the center, the ground is still bloody as no one has attempted to clean it up. The snow that mixes with it only makes it a more livid shade of red rather than hiding it. And still standing up from the ground, the whipping post exudes a menace that turns my stomach almost as much as the gore.

It frightens me and so I run the half-mile to the Victor's Village as fast as I can, slipping a few times on the wet snow and ice. My knees sting and tears of frustration threaten to spill over, knowing that each second wasted in falling and getting back up only prolongs Gale's suffering. The responsibility of delivering the morphling begins to feel very heavy, indeed.

Eventually, the circle of Victors' houses comes into view. The bushes in the central garden look alien covered in a thick blanket of snow. In the top of the crescent, the furthest away from town, stands Haymitch Abernathy's home. None of the lights are on and it looks lonelier and more abandoned that the houses that actually stand empty. One of the first houses to the left belongs to Peeta Mellark. There are no lights on, either, but a gray curl of smoke issues from the chimney. A few bedraggled pieces of Indian corn still hang from his front door, now donning thin icicles. I pass by his home and then another three empty ones before I reach the Everdeen's house. Every light is on, making it stand out like a beacon.

I take the steps two at a time and almost fall on my face on the icy landing, just barely maintaining my grip on the box. When I've righted myself I ring the doorbell. Nobody is answering and all the urgency I feel overshadows my manners as I start to frantically push the button over and over.

Mrs. Everdeen opens the door just as my finger is about to push down one more time. Katniss, Peeta, and Mr. Abernathy, stand behind her looking white-faced or wary. Eventually their expressions smooth out into surprise. I can see Haymitch's face, just above Mrs. Everdeen's head, and his eyebrow quirks up.

I'm thrown off course for a moment, intimidated by all of them staring at me and not saying a word. But then I see the welt on Katniss's left cheek and then the words are spilling out. I don't know if I'm coherent or not, but I hold out the box to Katniss. She's his friend, after all. For real.

"Use these for your friend," I say. Katniss takes the box that I am shoving at her and opens the lid. Her eyes concentrate on the vials of morphling, trying to figure out what they are. "They're my mother's. She said I could take them. Use them, please."

And then nothing.

I'm not sure what's going on in Katniss's mind, nor can I read her expression.

I want to stay, but know I have no reason to claim that right. And so I run, suddenly afraid of getting lost in the great amount of snow coming down. And maybe a little afraid to find out that, despite the agony, Gale will refuse my gift.

…

TBC – Epilogue


	4. Epilogue

**Repaid**

"_You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope." Katniss_

_Epilogue_

When I reach the walk leading to the back of the house I am soaked from the heavy snow and feeling both numb and wind-burned. Every bit of me is trembling. The jog to the Victors' Village chased away the nausea and now my stomach cramps from hunger. I awkwardly maneuver the steps which are covered in snow halfway up my shins and don't bother to brush myself off before going in.

I lock the door behind me.

The kitchen is cold and dark. I step out of my boots, nearly skidding on the puddle I've brought in, and gingerly wind my way to the stove. There's still some coal in the bucket and I use a small shovel-full to heat the room. My father refused to use an electric oven since his district's major industry is coal mining. I like the smell of it. Satisfied, I light a few candles, preferring the soft glow to the bright glare of electric lights.

My wool coat drips on the floor where I hang it on a peg. The boots I move by the stove to dry out. I thaw my hands and feet for a minute or two, gasping softly when the white-hot tingling begins.

Light-headed, I give up trying to warm myself and start scavenging. In the old refrigerator I find some leftover slices of chicken, which I don't bother to heat up. I take the entire platter out and slowly pick at some of the smaller pieces while I lean against the counter. The meat stays down. Then I find a carrot and peel it until the peelings make me think of Gale's back. Ugh. So, I stop and put it back in the fridge. There's bread from the Mellark's bakery in the pantry. I slice myself a generous piece and slather it in butter and honey. When I begin to feel full around the corners I make myself drink a glass of milk.

My hunger is taken care of, but the chill hasn't gone away and my hair drips down my back. I put the kettle on for some herbal tea and try to dry out while I wait, dragging a chair over so I can put my feet up.

The stillness is uncomfortable, though. At least the mindless eating and moving about served as a distraction, but now, I'm not sure what to do with myself. Go to bed? Everything feels so surreal and a wisp of doubt grows in my mind. Have I done the wisest thing? What will happen next? I wish Mr. Abernathy had a phone…although, he's probably still with the Everdeens and Gale. Besides, one never knows who else might be listening.

My chin is resting on my chest when there is a knock at the kitchen door. Startled, my eyes flutter open and I nearly fall out of my seat. The kettle begins to whistle, as well, and I feel disoriented.

Another insistent knock.

I get up. Apparently I am not the only fool in the district running about tonight. And then I pause…who would come here at this hour? And why?

I bite my lip as panic surges in my stomach. First things first – I remove the kettle from the heat. _Be reasonable_, I think to myself. I haven't actually done anything illegal…well, not that Thread would know about yet, anyway. If someone official, say a Peacekeeper, wanted admittance to this house, then he would probably come to the front door and not the back. And he probably wouldn't knock twice before showing himself in.

I feel a bit better, then, about slipping back the lock and opening the door. Cold air rushes is and the candles flicker. A tall, middle-aged woman with coal black hair stands on the stoop. Snow is caked in her hair and her clothes are worn and wet.

She looks familiar, something about the mouth and eyes.

"Madge Undersee?" she asks.

"Yes?" I reply.

"I was just coming back from the Everdeens when I saw your light on…and…" she hesitates, "I'm Hazelle Hawthorne. May I come in?"

…

**Finis**

AN: Doi! That's a terrible place to stop. Well, this story arc is over. But, you can probably guess what Hazelle came to talk about. SC doesn't give us any indication that Gale found out who his benefactress was, but I would be very surprised if his mother didn't ask about those details. And she was in the room when they talked about Madge. Anyway, I'm on to the next piece and hopefully some romance. (Sorry, K/G shippers.) I'm not really one to write chapter stories, but for some reason my muse is on overdrive for these two and material just keeps presenting itself, so we'll see.

Thank you all for reading, and especially to the anonymous reviewers that I wasn't able to reply to!


End file.
